The Sight of Music
by Acidity
Summary: Now that Voldemort is dead Harry doesn't know what to do with his life. His favorite musician, the reclusive Soames Grandfrey, has gone blind from a freak accident and needs an assistant. Harry takes the job and discovers Soames's real identity...
1. Chapter 1

"Harry James Potter get your foul arse out of bed this minute." Hermione Granger stepped across a pile of dirty clothes, half empty take out containers, and completely empty firewhiskey bottles to thrust open the curtains. Sunlight streamed into the room. In the middle of the bed a worm shaped figure burrowed into a tight ball. Along one side of the wall was an elaborate sound system playing classical piano music. Soames Grandfrey, of course. Harry's favorite. Possibly the only music he listened too.

"Harry?"

No answer. The sound system continued to tinkle.

"Harry, get up."

Still no answer.

Hermione yanked the covers down. Harry was curled in the middle of the bed in his boxers and a t-shirt covered in stains. He smelled. In fact the entire room smelled of fire whisky, rotten cheese, and unwashed wizard. Very unwashed. The only clean spot in the room was the sound system and the alphabetized stack of CDs next to it. All Soames Grandfrey CDs.

"Harry?" Hermione walked across the room and switched off the music. That got a reaction. "Harry what's wrong?"

"G'way. Stop fussing."

Hermione took a deep breath. "Harry, Ron and I leave for a month to go to Scotland, we come back and hear that no one has seen or heard from you for a month? Of course we're going to be worried."

"Got a headache."

"Harry, I'm asking you nicely."

Silence.

Hermione lifted her wand. "Aqueous." A jet of cold water hit Harry in the face.

Harry sat up. "Bloody hell, Hermione," he sputtered.

Hermione put down her wand. "Ahh, lateral movement. Much better."

"You take away my music. You try to drown me. Attempted murder will do that." Harry fell back against the pillows.

"Harry, you can't keep doing this."

"Doing what."

Hermione gestured helpless at the room, then at Harry. "Have you left your room in the past week? When was the last time you did something else besides sit in your room and listen to music?"

Harry shrugged.

"Harry, this has got to stop. You're only twenty. Your life is passing by."

"And just what is my life supposed to be, now that Voldemort's dead?" Harry snapped.

Hermione was silent.

"Exactly," Harry said. That was the trouble. Harry could have anything he wanted. Harry could do anything he wanted. And for awhile he did. He had gone backpacking with Ron and Hermione, stood on the peaks of mountains savoring the knowledge that the world was at peace and no one was coming for them.

Then they'd come back because Hermione's research position had started and Ron wanted to go for Auror training, and Harry was on his own.

He kept traveling but after a while that got lonely, and well, a little boring. Once you've seen twenty beautiful mountains the twenty first doesn't have as much of an impact. Then he thought he might as well buckle down and get a job like everyone else even though that didn't feel quite right. He'd attended the first few days of Auror training, but after seven years of ducking and dodging Voldemort anything the Aurors threw at him felt stupid, and make-believe. Harry was tired of fighting death, and the thought of spending the rest of his life tracking down minor dark lords or wizards gone bad made his stomach curdle.

The Aurors had pulled a few strings to get him a desk job, but that was even worse. Harry lasted precisely a month until his boss hinted that even though he was the Boy Who Lived, and the wizarding world was eternally in his debt, it would be much appreciated if he at least _tried _to make an effort.

Harry handed in his resignation the next day.

Then the Ministry offered him a job. Harry discovered that no matter what desk you sit at, no matter how the scenery and the people and the tasks change, something fundamental does not: you are still sitting at a desk.

It was about then that the odd looks and the rumors began. Now that Voldemort was dead, people were beginning to forget the terror of the war days. They were beginning to ask questions like, what exactly did it take to defeat the most powerful wizard of all time? What kind of power did that wizard have? And, if that was the case, what would happen if this wizard went bad?

Harry's sub-par performance at his various jobs didn't help the matters any.

Harry was still voted most eligible bachelor by Witch Weekly and his piles of fan-mail didn't stop, but now some people crossed the other side of the street when they saw him, or mothers pulled their children close when he walked by.

People loved the Boy Who Lived, but people did not exactly like him, and like, Harry discovered, was a lot more important than love when it came to the nitty gritty details of daily life.

Around that time he discovered Soames Grandfrey's music. No one knew much about Soames Grandfrey. One day he hadn't existed, and the next day his music was playing everywhere. It had the rare distinction of being loved by both the critics and witches and wizards everywhere, even though no one knew who Soames Grandfrey was. There were no photos and he refused to give interviews. In some ways it didn't matter, his music spoke for him.

It touches you where it hurts, one witch had said inarticulately, and that was really the gist of it, what the critics were struggling to describe. Soames Godfrey's music somehow managed to stir up all the things you thought you'd forgotten, all the thoughts you'd never quite articulated but kept tamped down in your heart half ashamed, and his music contained a blessing and a benediction: you can let go now.

Harry listened and he forgot that he was pants at a desk job, he forgot that people were giving him strange looks, and mostly he forgot the strange panic that kicked up in his chest whenever he thought about the days that stretched before him, long and empty.

And then he realized he could just sit at home and listen to Soames Grandfrey all day. And that's what he was did.

Until Hermione had returned from her research trip and taken it into her head that his current lifestyle wasn't healthy.

"So you're bored," Hermione said, in the eerie way she had of looking at Harry and summarizing his thoughts even though he hadn't said anything. Sometimes Harry wondered if Hermione was an Occlumens.

Hermione sighed. "Stop looking at me like you think I'm an Occlumens. It's obvious isn't it? Voldemort isn't popping up every year to scare the living day lights out of you and keep you on your toes, and that's been your purpose in life ever since you were eleven. Now that he's gone The Boy Who Lived has nothing to live for."

Sometimes Harry hated the way Hermione was so smart.

"Out," he said and cranked up the volume on his sound system.

* * *

><p>The thing about Hermione is she didn't give up. She showed up the next day with Ron in tow.<p>

"Sorry mate," he said as Hermione fluttered about Harry's room muttering cleaning spells. "Personally, I understand how sometimes you just need to take a break and if anyone deserves it, it's you…but you know what she's like."

Hermione bopped Ron on the head. "Oy, help me here."

Ron rolled his eyes but he started casting cleaning spells as well.

Once Harry would have made hen-pecked noises, or actually Harry never would have had his friends cleaning up for him, but somehow he didn't care. He just wanted them to go away.

Unfortunately they weren't going anywhere. Once Hermione had cleaned up and forced Harry into the shower, and Ron to make scrambled eggs for all of them, she perched on the edge of Harry's bed as they ate.

"You need a job."

"I—Hermione, no."

"Um, Hermione, not your brightest idea," Ron muttered.

"No, not like your other jobs," Hermione said. "Something like baking cupcakes or gardening."

"Baking cupcakes?"

"Yeah. The problem with the other jobs were too removed from the real world. Harry's simple, and he needs something hands-on that will give him a purpose."

"Simple?" Harry felt vaguely offended.

"Straightforward, I mean."

Harry suddenly wondered what Draco Malfoy would say if he could hear Hermione. Defeating Voldemort to baking cupcakes. He shrugged away the thought. Malfoy. One of the few benefits of his current life, it was Malfoy-less.

"Hermione, no offense, I'm not going to bake cupcakes. Thank you for cleaning up, but I'm tired now and I'm going to sleep." Harry walked to the door and stood next to it.

"Harry you just got up—"

Ron looked at Harry's face, then he stood up and steered Hermione by the shoulders. "'Mione, we'd better go. Mate, good to see you, we'll drop by sometime later."

Harry nodded briefly. As soon as they left he sank down onto the bed and hit the play button on the sound system. The sound of Soames Grandfrey's rough low voice filled the room, filtering away Harry's troubles.

Hermione, however, persisted in her belief that baking cupcakes would solve all of Harry's problems. Not that Harry had problems. She popped over every day proffering various job offers. It would be funny if it weren't so depressing. So far she'd come up with construction worker, grocer's assistant, nursery school teacher.

Harry thought about what the parents would say if they knew The Boy Who Lived was watching over their precious children and shuddered.

On the bright side, Hermione always made sure to bring a container of Ron's cooking with her and that was probably the main reason why Harry let her in. Ron's cooking was a lot better than take-out.

Today, she was chirpier than usual. "You'll love this one," she said after Harry had dressed and eaten. "Soames Grandfrey needs an assistant. He went blind in a freak accident a few months ago. His management has kept it hush-hush but Lavender works with them, and she told me that he's in a really bad state. They're not sure he'll be able to produce his next CD."

"He's a wizard," Harry said. "He doesn't need my help."

"Well the thing is, magic seems to make his condition worse. He was using spells to get by for a while, then his hearing started to go."

Something in Harry's chest lurched. "Go on," he said.

Hermione kept talking quickly as if she was afraid Harry would vanish if she stopped. "Even though he's stopped with the magic, his sight hasn't come back. He needs help with the every day things, a bit of cooking, help with the groceries and getting around, but more than that, I think he just needs someone to talk to. Someone he knows he can trust. Preferably someone who isn't going to be dazzled by fame and who knows exactly what it's like to be a constant source of attention." She looked straight at Harry.

Harry looked at the ground. "Alright," he said before he could stop himself.

* * *

><p>Harry cursed himself as he walked up the steps of Soames's villa in Southern France. He's a complete idiot for letting Hermione wear him down. He didn't want to in Southern France even if there was a pale blue sea sparkling behind him, and he didn't want to be in Soames Grandfrey's house even if was built out of stone, covered in windows framed by green shutters wrapped in ivy. Charming, and Harry was unmoved. He wanted to be back at home listening to Soames's music. Except there would be no music if he didn't do something. Or someone, he amended. No reason to think that he had to do something.<p>

Soames's manager, Selena Darling knocked on the door. She was a no-nonsense middle aged woman with a streak of grey in her black hair. She rather reminded Harry of McGonagall. She hadn't batted an eyelash when Harry had arrived at the interview and hadn't asked any questions like, what on earth is Harry Potter doing here?

There was no answer. She unlocked the door and they walked into the foyer. It was empty. She sighed. "We'll have to go find him. I'm sorry. He's a little…difficult these days."

The house was a disaster. Once it must have been beautiful, tastefully decorated and well-furnished but it looked like wild pigs had had the run of the place. The picture frames on the walls were crooked, some of them had cracked glass. Broken flower vases lay on the floor and next to them lay dead flowers and smeared blood as if someone had cut themselves and walked on regardless of the pain. In the kitchen dirty dishes were heaped in the sink and a few more lay smashed on the floor. Crumbs and half eaten bits of food were scattered across the floor, while every counter top was covered in sticky stains. In the bedroom clothes were heaped on the floor and wrinkled as if they'd been stepped on. Most of them were stained. Dust was everywhere.

The only clean spot was a large bright room with a black grand piano in the middle. There, it was clear that someone had tried to make an effort and had failed. The piano was dust free but it's surface was smeary as if it had been inexpertly wiped. Music sheets were clumsily stacked into piles, there were pieces of paper with music that started off neatly but towards the end the notes became wobbly and no sprawled across the page instead of laying neatly on the lines. The ink was blotted, there were holes in the paper like the writer had gotten frustrated and jabbed it, and then towards the end the ink the paper was wrinkly and blank like the writer had just given up and cried.

Harry's chest twisted and he gulped a little. He firmly redirected his thoughts to how much he wished Hermione could see this place—there was no way she could complain about him in comparison.

"He must be in the garden," Selena said. She led Harry through double glass doors. They stepped onto a stone patio. In front of them lay the sea, and around them flowers ran riot in the garden. It hadn't been weeded in a while and a few of the weeds were beginning to choke off the blooms. There were places where some of the flowers were crushed and bare patches of grass lay on the grass as if someone had fallen into the ground and then ripped up everything they could lay their hands on.

Then they heard screaming. Harry was something of a scream connoisseur, he'd heard people scream as the died, people screaming as they killed, and people screaming when they found out their loved had died, but he'd never heard screaming like this, the low animal wail of someone who was so helpless they could do nothing else but scream.

"So he is in the garden," Selena said as if the screaming was nothing new.

She led Harry around the corner of the house. "Ah, Soames."

Harry blinked.

Draco Malfoy was standing in the middle of the garden, half naked, face tilted to the sun as he screamed.


	2. Chapter 2

Malfoy was thin, far too thin. His shoulder blades threatened to poke out of his back and Harry swore he could count each of his ribs. His white blonde hair flopped over his face, and his body was covered in bruises, some of the blue and purple, others that had faded to green and yellow.

He had stopped screaming and was now just staring at the sun, squinting as if the sheer force of his will would make the light burn through his eyes and fill them with all the things he could not see.

Harry tried to reconcile this with his school memories of Malfoy, impeccably groomed, perpetually sneering and regal and his brain collapsed.

"Is everything alright?" Selena whispered. "You're gaping. I did warn you that he's a bit difficult. We haven't been able to persuade any of the other assistants to stay for more than a few hours. Not that that should dissuade you…"

"Erm," Harry said as he tried to come with an excellent excuse for why he absolutely could not take this job. Why hadn't anyone mentioned that Soames Grandfrey and Draco Malfoy were one and the same? Suddenly, Grandfrey's media shyness made sense, the wizarding world still hadn't forgiven former Death Eaters, but surely someone had to know who Malfoy was. Did Selena? The Malfoys had a high profile name, but they weren't celebrities. Draco's pictures had never been in the papers and probably the average person on the street wouldn't think to connect Malfoy's face with his name.

"Soames, I've brought your new assistant," Selana said confirming Harry's thought process. "This is—"

"Jerry Evans," Harry's mouth said before his brain could process anything.

Selena looked at him oddly. "Well…Jerry."

Draco turned around.

Harry was not prepared. Malfoy had grown into his face. His cheekbones were high and curved down into a pointed chin. His nose was thin and aristocratic, but his lips were full and pink. His hair was a bit too long and it swept softly over his forehead. His eyes—but Harry couldn't see his eyes because Malfoy was wearing thin dark glasses that obscured them.

Stupid, sentimental comparisons about archangels and gods popped into Harry's mind and he suddenly remembered it had been a very long time since he'd last gotten laid.

"Get the hell out of here," the archangel said, and Harry's thoughts cleared again. Music be damned, he was still Draco Malfoy the git who'd made him miserable at school. Somehow, Harry couldn't scare up the proper amount of anger though. Too much had happened, too many of his schoolmates had died. It was good to see someone from Hogwarts alive and well. Er, if screaming half naked at the sun could be considered well.

Selena continued on unperturbed. "He'll be living in the spare room and looking after you. We've also arranged for a mediwitch to check in on you regularly. Now, don't complain we've made all sorts of arrangements to protect your identity. Jerry will stay with you until you recover."

"And if I don't?"

"Now, Soames," Selena said bracingly. "Alright then, Jerry, I'm going to be off. Owl me if you have any problems. All the information you need about Soames should be in this docket." She handed over a thick pile of papers and Apparated out of the garden.

Harry looked at Malfoy. "Well, how are you then?" he said and then felt like a complete idiot.

"How do you think I am?" Malfoy hissed.

Harry did not need this. Harry was going home, music be damned. Some other good Samaritan could clean up this mess. Harry had done enough for a lifetime.

Only Malfoy, the utter prat, beat him to leaving.

It was awful watching Draco walk. He shuffled slowly spreading his hands in front of him. A few times he walked into the flowers and had to babystep himself out. He turned and looked around. It was clear he had no idea where the house actually was. He stretched out a hand and started off in the wrong direction.

"It's the other way," Harry said.

Malfoy ignored him and kept going forward. Then he tripped and pitched forward.

Harry leapt across the garden but it was too late, Malfoy lay sprawled across the ground, grass stains across his arms. He'd scraped his cheek against a rock and it was bleeding slightly. Harry was sure there would be a bruise in the morning. Malfoy's skin looked sensitive.

"C'mon," Harry said. He grabbed Malfoy by the arm, hauled him up, and slung one arm over his shoulder. Malfoy's skin was unexpectedly soft, and his arm was far too light. He needed a good feed.

For a moment Draco froze and then his muscles tensed as he shifted his weight into Harry. Harry snaked his arm around Malfoy's waist.

"Don't even think about shoving me over, you prat," he hissed into Malfoy's ear. "We're going inside." He'd see Malfoy safely into his room and then leave.

Malfoy didn't move. Harry squeezed Malfoy's waist and tugged. Malfoy yelped and started moving forward.

Malfoy's hair smelled rank, and his cheeks were rough with stubble. His pants were covered in grass stains. His skin felt filmy as if he hadn't been using soap to wash up or hadn't been washing up regularly period. He looked like he'd been living in the bushes for the past few months.

"You need a bath," Harry said.

Malfoy flushed. Harry remembered how back in the day Draco had a reputation for spending hours dressing.

"Fuck off."

That was the best he could do? Malfoy was really in a bad state. "Trust me, I don't want to be here either. I'm going to take you to your room and then I'm leaving. No, don't," Harry said and shot his other arm out as Malfoy tried to break free from his grip.

Malfoy squirmed half-heartedly against Harry's hip for a few more minutes but finally gave in and let himself be led up the stairs and into his room without further comment.

"Alright," Harry said. "I've put you in front of the bathroom. I'll contact Selena and she'll send you a new assistant in the morning, and you can have the pleasure of shredding him into little bits too."

Harry left Malfoy standing in front of the bathroom and went down the stairs. Half way down he paused. He couldn't hear the sound of a shower turning on. He stood and waited. I'll leave after I hear him turn on the shower, he promised himself.

Harry had to wonder how Malfoy had intended to do if he and Selena hadn't stopped by. Harry shuddered wondering how many times Draco had gotten lost, how long it had taken him to come back inside and how many bruises he'd collected along the way.

The shower still wasn't running. It was none of his business, but—Harry went back up the stairs.

Malfoy was sitting in front of the bathroom, his shoulders hunched over in a position of utter defeat. It was the defeat that killed Harry. He was so used to seeing Malfoy arrogant.

Harry tapped Malfoy on the shoulder. "Come on."

He stepped inside the bathroom. Even for a person who could see it was an obstacle course. Bottles had been knocked off of shelves. Malfoy must be ridiculously vain, Harry thought. He'd never seen so many beauty products in a bathroom before, not even in Ginny's, back when they were dating, back before Harry realized he was gay. Half of the bottles were broken and oozing liquids. On their own they wouldn't have been too bad, but the smell mixed together was overpowering.

Harry peered into the shower. The soap was gone and the shampoo bottle had been knocked to the floor. Instead a half opened lotion bottle lay in the shower. Harry snapped it shut, moved it to the cabinet, rummaged through the cabinet until he found some body wash and moved the shampoo bottle back into the shower where it would be within easy reach. He turned on the shower and went back out to find Malfoy.

"Alright, shower's on." Harry held out his hand tugged on Malfoy's sleeve.

As expected, Malfoy ignored him.

"Look there's a water shortage in the world. Each drop of wasted water in the world means a baby whale dies. Do you really want that on your conscience?"

Malfoy shot him a horrified look and then got up and shuffled into the bathroom.

"Shampoo is on your right, body wash on your left," Harry called and shut the door behind him as he tried to process the fact that Malfoy had a soft spot for baby whales.

Harry went into the closet. There weren't many clean clothes left, but he managed to find a soft button down cotton shirt that smelled relatively clean, silky pajama pants and black silk boxers. Malfoy seemed to have a thing for silk. The boxers were smooth and cool under his fingertips, and touching them made Harry feel strangely warm. Harry wrapped them in the pants and dropped them on the bed as quickly as possible.

The shower ran for a good hour or so, apparently Malfoy didn't care about the baby whales once he was in the shower, then it shut off and Malfoy did not come out.

Harry waited. A good fifteen minutes passed. No one came out. "What's wrong?" he called out.

"There's no towel," Malfoy said sulkily.

Right. Harry pulled a towel out of the closet, went into the bathroom. "I'm leaving it on the toilet lid." He was uncomfortably aware of the fact that only a thin shower curtain separated him from Malfoy's wet body.

"Alright, I'll be leaving now," Harry cried and shot out of the bathroom before his treacherous imagination could continue further down that path.

A few minutes later Malfoy emerged toweling his hair off. He smelled like lemon and ginger and he was humming. He still had the dark glasses on, but his hair stuck up in odd wet clumps and his shirt was buttoned crookedly. He must have tried to shave because some of the patches of hair were gone, but he'd done an awful job of it and a few still remained. A droplet of water followed the curve of his neck. The pants hugged his slim waist, and though he moved slowly, he moved fluidly and gracefully.

Malfoy raised his wrist to his nose and sniffed happily. Then he stroked the skin on his arm and grinned.

"Clean clean clean, I'm finally clean…" he sang. His voice was pure and even the nonsense song had a faintly sensuous undertone.

Harry realized that Malfoy thought he'd left already.

Harry gulped and looked away. He was leaving. He was going to leave right now—

Malfoy's stomach rumbled loudly.

Okay, he was leaving after he'd seen to Malfoy's dinner. As quietly as possible he backed out of the room and went down to the kitchen.

Harry wasn't much of a cook, and his favorite kitchen appliance was the telephone for deliveries. It didn't help matters that he had to do things the muggle way, but finally he found a clean pot in Malfoy's wreck of a kitchen and boiled up some pasta and covered it with sauce.

He knocked on Malfoy's door and walked in. "I come bearing dinner."

Malfoy was sitting at his dressing table running a comb through his hair. He jumped at the sound of Harry's voice. "What are you still doing here?" he snarled. "Leave. I don't need your sympathy" He hurled the comb at Harry and then patted the table searching for other things to hurl at Harry.

Harry caught the comb and set it down with the plate in front of Malfoy. "Alright, pasta is on the table and here's your comb."

He side stepped the punch Malfoy threw at him and made a great show of banging the door shut behind him and stomping down the hall. Then he tiptoed back down the hallway and cracked open the door.

Malfoy stared at the pasta. He pushed it away. Then he pulled it back to himself. He took a bite and then he slurped the rest of it down. He ate quickly, spilling sauce on his chin and at times he couldn't aim the fork into his mouth and ended up jabbing his cheeks and chin. His face was smeared over in sauce by the time he was done.

"Hot food, hot fuuud, passsta, pastarrr," Malfoy sang.

Harry chuckled. He couldn't help himself.

Malfoy's features froze over. "Who's there?" he cried, raising a hand to cover his face. He wiped his chin on his shirt and then fingered the dirty sleeve sadly.

Belatedly, Harry realized he should have given Malfoy a napkin. It hurt Harry somehow to see Malfoy looking so sad over a stained shirt.

Malfoy must have decided it was nothing because he set the bowl down and stood up. He made his way past the table, and then he was in the middle of the room with nothing to hold on to, and he lost his fluidity and grace. Instead he held his arms out in front of him again and moved with a stiff-legged walk as if bracing himself for a fall that would come any minute. He walked like this until he reached a wall, then he placed his palm against the wall and moved slowly to the doorway.

Harry jumped backwards before Malfoy's fingertips could brush his body. He watched as Malfoy followed the wall to the stairwell, and then sat down at the edge of the stairs and slid down until he reached the bottom.

Harry followed noiselessly behind him. Malfoy was in the great empty foyer now, and there was very little to guide him except for a center table with a broken vase next to it. Harry wanted to grab Malfoy's wrist and guide him wherever he wanted to go in the worst way possible, but he held back.

Malfoy stretched his arms out again, and shuffled slowly to the middle of the hallway until he reached the table. He was only inches away from the glass and Harry was afraid he would cut himself, but Malfoy missed the glass by a few inches and kept going.

Malfoy's face was furrowed and his shoulders were tense. He relaxed minutely when he bumped into the wall again. He followed it until he ended up in the kitchen.

The kitchen?

Malfoy backed out of the kitchen, frowning and went down another hallway. Apparently that was not what he wanted either, because he came back, and then he went down another hallway and he was in the great room that held the piano.

It was about three steps from the wall to the piano bench and Harry was afraid Malfoy would fall over the piano bench and crash into the piano. Malfoy must have done that before, or maybe he cared too much about his piano, because he got down on his hands and knees and crawled until he bumped into the piano bench. Then he clambered up on the bench and finally, his face relaxed.

Malfoy sat quietly for a few minutes, his hands loose over the white keys, breathing in and out as if he was entirely at peace with the world.

Harry looked at his watch. The whole thing had taken Malfoy twenty minutes. How on earth had he managed to live alone? What kind of godawful management did Malfoy have? He would write to Selena as soon as he got home and insist they send an assistant over as soon as possible. He'd even offer to top up the salary with his own funds.

Harry turned to go.

Malfoy lifted his hands and began to play.

The music washed over Harry in a thundering roar. This was better than a CD, it was better than a live concert, this was like be surrounded by music, like being swallowed alive. The music rushed on and on, carrying Harry with it, it lifted him up to wheel among the stars, then it swooped downwards, falling and finally spontaneously combusted in a grand crescendo.

Harry stood rooted to the spot. He knew one thing. He wasn't leaving Malfoy. He couldn't.


	3. Chapter 3

When Draco woke up he was on the floor with his hand wrapped around the piano bench. He opened his eyes, but it was no use. The world remained dark. The first few days after he went blind, Draco had spent hours lying on his bed opening his eyes as wide as they would go, convinced that if strained the proper muscles he would be able to see again. He'd only stopped when the mediwitch told him the stress would further damage his eyes. Now he just opened his eyes and hoped. Hoping, he discovered, was pretty useless. But that, he knew, should not have been news.

He sat up. He was hungry but he didn't have the energy to face the long walk to kitchen and then rooting through the refrigerator to pull out Merlin knew what. The assistants usually went grocery shopping before he booted them out and Selena would drop off a bag of groceries, but Draco never knew what he was eating until he put it in his mouth. As it was Selena mostly brought fruits and vegetables, things you could eat without any preparation and Draco was heartily sick of them.

His hand hit something soft and he realized he was wrapped in a blanket. Someone had covered him while he was sleeping. Evans. Draco groaned. The last thing he needed was sympathy from some swine headed fan who would say stupid things like, "It'll get better," or try to get his autograph every three seconds. Or worse, someone who would figure out his real identity and call him out for his past.

Well. At least Evans was gone. He'd promised to leave last evening. Draco was alone again and he could do whatever he liked without worrying about how stupid he looked or how filthy he'd become.

He clawed his way up to the piano and banged on it savoring the smoothness of the keys under his fingers. "I'm hungry, oh so hungry," he sang and then stopped. He sounded like a madman. He probably was a madman, doomed to spend the rest of his life locked up in this house pounding out his grief on the piano.

Fitting punishment for a coward. Fitting punishment for a traitor.

When he was eleven he'd never imagined ten years later, he'd be sitting friendless and alone, stone blind in a house. The mediwitch was baffled by the blindness, she said she'd never seen a case like it, and you couldn't just go blind one day, but Draco was pretty sure it was karmic punishment for being a Malfoy. He was absolutely sure of this when the mediwitch's treatments began to affect his hearing.

Draco shuddered. Then he kept banging on the keyboard, just to make sure he really could hear and his hearing hadn't disappeared overnight. The music he made was loud, harsh, it boomed and clanged, then Draco was drowning in an ocean of sound that scrubbed away at the darkness, that somehow made it matter less. He had his music, and that was enough. It had to be.

Minutes or hours later, Draco didn't know, and didn't quite care because time was meaningless once you could no longer see clocks or daylight, he stopped and rested his cheek against the piano. He was famished.

He got off of the bench and holding his palm out until his fingers brushed against the cool papery wall. He followed it out into the foyer and then stopped. Draco hated the foyer. He'd been so proud of the way the sunlight from the glass double doors would pour into the foyer in the afternoon, lighting up the marble floor, refracting through the crystal vase he placed on the center table until the room was a pale blaze dotted with rainbow fragments.

These days the foyer was like having his personal river Styx. The first time he crossed, he'd slammed his crotch painfully into the center table, knocking over the vase. After that he cut himself at least once or twice a week on a vase shard. Stupid assistants. If they were going to come and bother him for a day the very least they could do was clean up the glass. Even if he managed to get past the vase shards unscathed, there was a good chance he'd get lost.

He made it to the fridge in relatively good time, after only one wrong turn and jabbing his hip on a corner wall. He opened it, bracing himself for the slight blast of cool air that hit his body. Then he reached his hand into the fridge and patted down the shelves. They were slightly wet and bare. He reached in the corners but they too were empty. He thumped one of the shelves and the fridge rattled.

He dropped to his knees, and pulled open the drawers. Still nothing. He felt around the door shelves, and finally in the corner found something round and wrinkled. An apple? He pulled it out and clutched it to his chest. He would have to ask Selena to send over some more groceries.

Evans had made pasta last night, but after a horrible day when he'd spilled boiling water on his hand and nearly set fire to the kitchen, Draco was not going to experiment with the stove. He hadn't been able to play properly for nearly a week afterwards.

Draco tucked the maybe-apple in his pocket so he could make his way back to the kitchen wall. It slipped out of his fingers and fell onto the floor. He stooped down to pick it up, but it wasn't there. He got down on his knees and patted the floor. His hand stuck to tiles and he had to peel it off. No apple. He crawled around the whole kitchen, but the apple did not turn up.

He was going to have to go all the way upstairs, somehow find a Quill and parchment and owl Selena and wait for her to bring food before he could eat.

Draco slammed his hand onto the ground in sheer frustration. Mistake. It hit the jagged edges of a broken plate Draco had thrown against the wall at the beginning of his blindness. Draco howled. Blood gushed out of his palm and dripped onto the floor. His hand hurt, but what was even worse was he couldn't see if there were pieces of glass embedded in his palm that needed to be dug out before he could play.

Draco leaned against the wall. Don't cry, he told himself. But since there was no one there to see, the tears came anyway.

* * *

><p>Off in the distance Draco heard the front door open, then footsteps echoed across the foyer, went tap tap tap across the hall and stopped in front of him. Strong hands pulled him up.<p>

"Shhh, it's all right," Evans said. "I went out for some groceries." He led Draco to the kitchen table and sat him down. Then he took Draco's palm and dabbed it with something that stung horribly. Draco winced, and Evans patted his shoulder.

"I'm just disinfecting your hand." He had a warm mellow baritone that made Draco think of amber whiskey being poured into a shot glass. He bent over Draco's hand, and something cool jabbed at his palm, digging and pulling.

Draco yelped.

"Shhhh," Evans said again in his whiskey voice and Draco shhhed. Evans's hands were warm and his grip on Draco's hand was firm. When he was finished, he patted Draco on the shoulder again. Draco opened his mouth to say he wasn't a baby and Evans could just stop with all the shoulder patting, but Evans's footsteps were going tap tap tap away from Draco.

Good, Draco thought. Now, Evans was finally going to leave. He got up because he really ought to see about owling Selena, and then sank back down in his chair. He waited for the sound of the front door banging shut, but instead there was a terrible rattling in the kitchen. It sounded like Evans was trying to play the tambourine using a frying pan and a few pots.

So he was going to dent Draco's expensive kitchenware and then leave. Bastard. There was a sizzling, then some muffled cursing, and then Draco could smell cinnamon and vanilla and he groaned.

The tap taping sound again and then Evan's voice was coming from somewhere above Draco's ear. He set something down with a clink on the table and now the pancake smell was overwhelming.

"I'm not much of a cook," Evans said sadly. "I was going for pancakes, but these look more like Australia. And they're a little burnt."

Don't touch the plate, Draco told himself. Do not, do not—but it seemed like his brain was disconnected from his hand. His treacherous hand groped around for a fork, and then when it had it, began poking around for the plate.

Alright, just don't eat in front of him, Draco's brain said. I'm willing to compromise. You can eat but later.

His fork managed to stab a pancake. Draco lifted it into the air and crammed the entire thing into his mouth.

"Oh good, you like them," Evans said. He sounded happy.

Stop eating, Draco's brain roared, but his body had officially revolted. He was cramming pancakes into his mouth as fast as he could. Pancake fragments were falling right and left and somehow he didn't care because it had been so long since he'd had pancakes. Draco loved pancakes. At Hogwarts he'd sneak down to the kitchens and have the House Elves make batches for him. In secret. It wouldn't do for anyone to know that the prince of Slytherin loved pancakes.

"I'll ask R-, um," Evans paused awkwardly, "um, my erm, friend to teach me how to make better pancakes. He says it's easy. He's a really good cook, which makes sense because he loves eating."

He? Interesting. So Evans had a "friend." That was a "him." Draco filed that away to process later when there weren't pancakes around to distract him.

* * *

><p>Eating the pancakes was a serious tactical error, Draco decided as he ran his fingers up and down the piano. Somehow Evans had interpreted that as permission to do the laundry. Draco wouldn't have known, except after breakfast Evans had handed him a few clothes.<p>

"Change," he said.

Draco hadn't wanted to, then he remembered pasta sauce and took the clothes. It turned out Evans must have been raised by wild wolves because his idea of clothing was a scratchy t-shirt and the horrible contraption known as jeans.

"You were probably a peasant in a former life," Draco informed him bitterly, when he came out of the bathroom scratching. "It's like having lice running up and down your legs. I'm glad the madman who invented these had a lice fetish, but did he seriously have to share it with the rest of the world?"

Evans laughed, which was not what Draco had been going for. Evans had a nice laugh, it bubbled up from his belly and exploded out of his mouth and then he'd stop for a bit, like he hadn't laughed that much or often enough so the sound was surprising, and then he'd laugh even harder.

Draco sort of wanted to make him laugh again. Just to capture the rhythm of the sound, to see if he could make the piano trill the same way, but he couldn't figure out the proper notes. One melody was too happy, it failed to capture the sadness underlying Evans's laugh, and it was the sadness that made it compelling, Draco thought. Most people laughed and they were happy and that was it. Evans laughed and you wanted to make him keep laughing, let him know that he needn't be surprised, that most people lived lives punctuated with laughter.

"Clothes for the lord of the fief," Evans said and dropped a silk shirt and pants on Draco's head. Proper clothing. For a moment Draco's world smelled like freshly cut grass and summer breezes, then he managed to poke his head through the clothes.

"Lucky you have a washing machine," Evans said and Draco tilted his head towards the sound of voice trying to memorize the tones. "Otherwise I'd have to dunk your clothes in the ocean, but I called Her-, erm, one of my, um friends, and she said that'd make you itch even more."

Evans had two "friends"?

"Um, I really wouldn't have dunked your clothes in the ocean. You don't have to look so worried."

"I'm not worried," Draco snapped and grabbed the clothes. "Leave."

There was a silence. "Oh?" Evans said. He sounded hurt.

"So I can change," Draco clarified and then hated himself. He should have said, leave the house.

"Oh, er, right, right, I'll be going now." Evans said. "See you at dinner then. I found a recipe I can't wait to try my hand at."

Draco banged his head against the piano. Why hadn't he told Evans to leave when he had the chance? Probably, because he wouldn't have listened, his rational mind said. Which is a good thing, his less rational mind said, and Draco started pounding away at the piano so his less rational mind would shut up and he could pretend he imagined the entire bit about his rational mind.

Which, was imaginary anyway, but there was still a difference between thinking something and not thinking it, and now Draco was giving himself a headache, so he kept going at the piano and then somehow he had it, the sound of Evans laughter, and he played it over and over again to make sure he had it right, that he'd never forget the sound.

* * *

><p>Draco had no idea what dinner was, because the moment Evans set it down on the table, Draco stopped processing words. He bit into something doughy that was wrapped around a piece of chicken smothered with melted cheese, and a tangy sour sauce. It was hot, and spicy and Draco ate and ate and ate.<p>

"I hope you like Mexican," Evans said. Draco didn't bother replying, because food.

"So, I take it you love Mexican," Evans said after Draco had worked his way through three of the doughy things and was scarfing down the ice cream Evans had laid out for desert.

Draco paused mid-spoon and realized he'd just eaten in front of Evans for the second time and his face was covered in food stains.

Evans is a hideous beast, he told himself. It doesn't matter if he sees me covered in food stains because he likes lice-pants and, um, I pay his wages, and…Draco's rational mind started running out of reasons. Oh shut up, if he found you disgusting he wouldn't have stuck around for dinner, his less rational mind said.

Draco was beginning to feel tyrannized by his less rational mind.

"What do you look like?" he asked for the sake of his rational mind.

"Erm. Erm."

"Erm is not a descriptor."

"Er, why is it important?"

So Evans was hideous. No surprise. "Because I'm blind, and in the event that you decide to rob me, I'd like to be able to pick you out of a police lineup."

"What if I lied?"

He had a point.

"Come here," Draco said impatiently.

Evans walked around the table and stood next to Draco's chair.

"Closer. Kneel."

"Bossy aren't you?"

"Who pays your wages here?"

Evans shut up after that.

Draco stretched out his hand and touched Evans's hair. It was silky and Draco was tempted to twist the strands between his fingers, to rub his cheek against Evans's hair. Instead he dragged his fingers down to Evans' face. Evans wore glasses, Draco was surprised to discover. Evans didn't sound like a nerd who work glasses. Draco yanked them off and tossed them over his shoulder.

Evans yelped. "Hey, I'm blind as a bat without those."

"Really?" Draco said meanly and placed his hand against Evans's face before Evans could stammer out some ill thought out apology. He traced the shape of Evans's face. His skin was soft. Softer than it had any right to be. Draco cupped Evans's cheek in his hands and traced his jawline. It was taunt and firm. Not the jawline of someone you messed with, he decided. Draco grinned. Somehow that pleased him. He traced the outline of Evans's lips, and heard Evans inhale sharply.

"What color is your hair?" Draco asked.

"Bl—brown," Evans said, his mouth moving against Draco's fingers.

"Eyes?"

"Blue." Evans's voice sounded funny, like he was having trouble breathing.

"Stand up."

Evans stood up and Draco stood with him. Draco patted Evans's head, they were evenly matched, which was surprising, Draco was tall and enjoyed staring down his nose at people. It was a key component of the Malfoy stare. He ran his hands along Evans's shoulders, and then he patted Evans's chest, wrapped his fingers around Evans's slim waist. Evans had muscles and there wasn't an ounce of fat on him, but his frame was spare rather than bulky. He would have made a good Seeker, Draco thought. His hands moved lower.

Evans caught his wrist.

"Stop," he said harshly.

Draco snatched his fingers away and felt his face heat up.

The funny thing was, for a hideous person Evans was extremely pleasant to touch.

He's not hideous, Draco's less rational mind whispered. You should let him stay.

Draco waited for his rational mind to say something sensible, but it kept thinking about the hard firmness of Evans's muscles, the softness of his hair, and the simple melody in his head that had started off as Evans's laughter swell and grew, as if it wanted to become so much more.


	4. Chapter 4

"The mediwitch is coming today," Malfoy said the next morning. Harry looked up from the fruit salad he was chopping for breakfast, startled. Evidently, Malfoy wasn't going to mention the events of last night, because he said nothing further.

"Oh erm, great," was all Harry could think to say. "Well. I'll have breakfast out in a bit."

Malfoy nodded tersely and sat down at the table.

Harry suddenly felt like he'd put his foot in his mouth and he had no idea why.

Harry set the fruit salad on the table and loaded up Malfoy's plate. "Will the mediwitch be staying for lunch?"

Malfoy bit into a piece of pineapple instead of replying. Then he spat it out. "Fruit, Evans?" Malfoy said, raising a pale eyebrow.

"It's good for you," Harry replied. Fruit salad was the only other food in his culinary repertoire other than spaghetti and pancakes. He'd have to see about owling Ron for recipes as soon as possible.

"Fruit is for fruit-flies," Malfoy said and put his fork down. "Bring pancakes."

"Grandfrey, I'm not a house-elf."

"Yes, but when musical genius Soames Grandfrey is found dead in his house due to malpancaketrition, all the blame is going to fall on his assistant."

"Malpancaketrition?" Harry asked, stunned by how easy it was to be talking to Malfoy, how good it was to banter after months of staring at his wall with nothing but music and Hermione's nagging for company.

"Horrible disease. Happens when you don't get enough pancakes."

Malfoy was smiling a bit, and there was a dimple tucked in the thin crease of his cheek. Any idea Harry had of insisting on fruit, vanished. He headed back to the counter and started pulling out the ingredients, which he noticed, were running rather low.

Harry expected Malfoy to defect to the music room, but perhaps Malfoy didn't want Harry to see him stumble out of the room, because he was still at the table when Harry brought out the first pancake.

"You're even more spoiled then a pet poodle," Harry said sliding the pancake onto Malfoy's plate. He slipped a double serving of fruit onto Malfoy's plate along with it. Malfoy needed his nutrients.

"Excuse me? I think I'd rate a bulldog at least," Malfoy said as Harry continued to fry up the pancakes.

"A bulldog?"

"Highly attractive dogs. The distinguished face wrinkles. Their voices. A deep bass. Mmmmm."

Harry paused. "…You just said bulldogs are attractive."

"Don't be jealous. I know you've got the face of a toucan."

Harry tried to remember what toucans looked like. All that came to mind were big orange bills. He decided to take it as a compliment.

"Hey, are you working for a blind person because you've got some hideous physical deformity?"

Harry put down his spatula and turned around. He knew Malfoy couldn't see him glare but somehow glaring made him feel better. "Grandfrey. You practically felt me up last night. Everything was in place."

Malfoy went a little red.

Then, very quietly he said, "You are cross eyed aren't you?"

Malfoy was still wearing his dark glasses, Harry still had not see his eyes, but the sun was dancing on Malfoy's cheekbones and his hair fell over his face in a blonde swoosh, so it just stuck up at odd angles. He looked like he'd just crawled out of bed and he was smiling, a wide brilliant smile, utterly delighted with himself for getting in the last word, and Harry had to look away, look down at the plain brown of his pancakes against the white ceramic plate.

"So the mediwitch," Harry said and then regretted it because Malfoy's smile died.

There was a long painful pause and Harry wanted to kick himself, wanted to reel the words back even though they had seemed so innocuous and he also wanted to kick Malfoy for being so damn sensitive.

"The medi-witch is bringing a new potion for me to try," Malfoy said finally. "She thinks it might be the right cure." He got up and started fumbling for the wall. Harry rushed over, and grabbed Malfoy's wrist.

"Here—"

Malfoy punched him in the face.

"You bastard," Harry snarled, grabbing his sore nose.

Malfoy's mouth went thin and hard. "I don't need your pity." He'd found the wall and his hands were milk-pale against the green wallpaper. The sun turned his hair into liquid gold. He banged into a corner, cursed, hit his foot, and then, the room was empty.

On the stove a pancake was burning, but Harry couldn't bring himself to move. He looked at Malfoy's plate. Malfoy had eaten everything on his plate, the pancakes and fruit salad, even the spat out piece of pineapple.

Malfoy complained like he was emperor of the world, Harry thought, but he ate like a desperate man.

* * *

><p>The mediwitch came a few hours later. She was a plump woman with wisps of grey hair and apple-red cheeks. She looked cozy and cheerful and Harry took to her immediately. She reminded him of Mrs. Weasley.<p>

The agency must have warned the mediwitch about Harry because she didn't seem surprised when she saw him. She only pressed his hand warmly, and said, "Thank you," as Harry ushered her into the seldom used study where Malfoy was waiting, and Harry couldn't tell if it was for the ushering or because he was Harry Potter.

He forgot all about that when he saw Malfoy. Malfoy was sitting on a green velvet armchair. He was clutching the arms in a white knuckled grip and his back was ramrod straight. He looked like he'd been hewed from a block of granite.

"Out, Evans," he said to Harry.

Harry swallowed all sorts of protests and went off into the kitchen to make lunch. If this is how Malfoy treated his house-elves, no wonder Dobby had been so fond of Harry.

At noon he laid out lunch on the table. Half an hour passed. No one came out of the study.

Harry walked up to the door to announce lunch, then thought better of it. He didn't want to seem over protective and Malfoy certainly deserved his privacy. Still they'd been in there for at least three hours. How long could it take to down a bloody potion?

Another hour passed. Harry started pacing the hallway and thanked the heavens he'd made sandwiches instead of something that would coagulate. Then he realized he'd actually just worried about food coagulating and forced himself out into the garden to pull weeds.

Still, he made sure to stay within eyeshot of the glass doors so he'd be able to see when Malfoy left the study to cross through the foyer.

Malfoy emerged from the room hours later. Harry leapt up as soon as he saw Malfoy's figure through the glass.

"So?" he said, trailing behind Malfoy. "Sandwiches," he said as Malfoy sat down at the table, as Malfoy felt around for a fork and knife.

"So what?" Malfoy tore into the sandwich even though it had been out for hours and the bread must have been dry.

"So how did it go? Should I set out another plate for her?"

"Don't bother."

"She's gone?"

"Disappareted."

"Well, what did she say?" Harry said. He winced. He sounded like a flustered parent. "You were in there an awfully long time for drinking a potion." Great. Now he sounded like he'd been counting the minutes. "I mean, how long will it take to start working?" Malfoy's face went sort of frozen so Harry tried for humor instead. "I mean, how much longer will I be house-elfing for you?"

"Just that eager to leave aren't you?" Malfoy snapped. He threw down his sandwich, and left. Only, instead of sweeping out of the room he ended up walking into the wall.

Malfoy stopped. The back of his neck went a dull red. Harry didn't dare move.

Malfoy did not come out for dinner.

* * *

><p>The next few days were blessedly Malfoy free. At least that's how Harry tried to think about it. He went shopping. He bought recipe books. He read them. He cooked. He brought the meals to the music room on china plates. He'd tried to enter on the first day but it was locked. Malfoy's room was also locked, and how Malfoy managed with keys and bolts when he couldn't even walk properly, was a complete mystery to Harry.<p>

The plates, Harry noticed, were always empty.

After the fourth day the silence started getting to Harry. He called Hermione on the cellphone he'd picked up while doing groceries, in case of emergencies.

"Harry, how are you?" she cried, when she picked up the phone. "Ron's been at me ever since you left. He's convinced that I've ruined your life, which is total nonsense because you were already doing that on your own…"

Harry thought that was a bit much for a first phone call, but Hermione was uncharacteristically silent for once, as if she really wanted to hear his answer.

"He's a real prick," Harry said.

"Soames?"

"Who else?"

"I thought you'd be fanboying him all over the place."

"Well I would if he wasn't Dr-" Harry stopped.

"Wasn't?"

"An overdramatic prima donna. He has tantrums over the smallest things. Seriously, Hermione I'm trying so hard, and the smallest thing will set him off. He's holed up over his piano and he won't talk to me and I don't even know why."

Harry waited for some sympathy.

Hermione laughed, a bright delighted gurgle. "It's good to have you back, Harry," she said.

"What on earth do you mean? I'm in bloody France."

Hermione just laughed again. "I'm sure you'll beat it out of him." She hung up, before Harry could ask her to put Ron on for some pancake recipes.

As Harry threw dinner together, he wondered why he hadn't told Hermione about Draco. He and Hermione had been to hell and back together. He would trust her with his life. He had trusted her with her life. At some level she and Ron were extensions of him. Without them he was always doomed to feel like part of himself was missing. If he owed anyone anything it was his friends. Or Draco's mother. But Harry did not want to think about the past.

That was it, he decided. The past was over. It was done. He was a victim of it, and Malfoy hiding behind his piano in France was another victim. If Malfoy didn't want the past to come back, then who the hell was Harry to force it upon him?

He sat down and wrote a brief note to Ron that he could owl off.

_Hello mate,_

_The crazy musician I'm working for is nuts about pancakes. Owl me your best recipes. Actually all of your recipes. Getting sick of my standard three recipes, and reading recipe books is worse than potions._

_-Harry_

Perhaps the Universe was paying attention or Harry earned some form of karma points because Malfoy appeared for dinner. He didn't say anything to Harry, just fumbled his way into a chair and waited for dinner.

He was still wearing the dark glasses and his shirt was buttoned crookedly, but he was clean and he wasn't screaming.

Harry set a plate down in front of Malfoy and slid into the opposite chair. He wanted to know in the worst way possible what had brought about this sudden change of heart—boredom? Minor brain damage?

Malfoy was eating, his head bowed over his soup. His hair stuck up and the pale lines of his neck made him look young, very vulnerable, and Harry suddenly wondered how many people Malfoy saw in a given week.

This is Soames Grandfrey, Harry told himself. He is a stranger you've just met. Bit sensitive, but he's losing his hearing, and that'd make anyone go around the bend. Be kind. Be patient.

"So, you ought to tell me what you like eating," Harry said when Malfoy was halfway through his soup. "If it hasn't escaped your notice I know about three recipes. That's soup's from a can. I've been trying to read recipe books but I don't even know where to begin."

Malfoy shrugged.

Harry counted to ten. Kind. Patient. Kind. Patient, he repeated to himself. This is my mantra.

"Grandfrey, you imbecile, God knows I'm crazy, but somehow I'm still a fan even after meeting you in person. I would like to hear more of your music, and I will not have your death by starvation on my hands." Harry gave himself full points for being kind and patient, although he had a feeling if Hermione could hear him, she'd smack him.

The corner of Malfoy's mouth twitched.

Harry continued, cheered. "So…"

"Bear meat would be good," Malfoy said. "It's packed full of protein. Good for hearing."

Harry choked and promptly forgot about his new mantra and his resolution to let the past go. "What kind of rich brat are you?" he squawked. "Bear?"

"It's an ancient family tradition."

"You've got to be shitting me. Where am I going to find bear here anyway?"

Malfoy shrugged again, but the other corner of his mouth twitched. He ducked his head over his bowl, but Harry saw the smile anyway, and it was more than worth feeling like a total idiot for taking the bait.

"No seriously," Harry said.

"Seriously. Anything. As long as it's not fattening."

"But you eat pancakes all the time—"

Malfoy continued like he hadn't heard. "I've got to watch my weight. Part of being a celebrity."

"You're a celebrity who never goes out," Harry said. "What are you on?"

There was a silence and Harry wanted to punch himself in the face. The Universe cut him a break, and he went and crapped all over it. Welcome to his life. He opened his mouth to blurt out something, he didn't know what, but Malfoy threw back his head and roared with laughter.

"You have no manners, Evans."

"I'm an orphan," Harry muttered. "Badly brought up and all that."

Malfoy snorted. "Harry Potter is an orphan and he saved the world. Don't even try that on me."

Harry froze.

Malfoy cocked his head. "Actually, I take that back. Potter was a total prat. Actually, I don't want to think about Potter. He depresses me."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, afraid to know, and more afraid of not knowing. His chest felt like it was gripped by iron rods.

"He, oh, I don't know…" Malfoy said. "He was brought up outside the wizarding world, and then brought in to save it. No one ever asked him if he wanted all of that. You almost have to feel sorry for him. Almost. I'm sure all the fame went to his head."

Harry had never thought of it that way. He hadn't ever wanted to think about it that way because if he did, he might go to bed and never get up again. Hogwarts had been magical, dreams and miracles wrapped up in a gigantic birthday present, a sanctuary after eleven years of the Dursleys.

"You've got a funny way of showing you felt sorry for him," Harry spat.

Malfoy had the grace to blush, but his voice was even. "What do you mean?"

It was enough to remind Harry of the charade they were playing: strangers without a past. "Calling him a prat," Harry said finally. "How do you know he was anyway?"

Malfoy waved a hand. "Have you read all those articles about him?"

Harry sputtered. "I didn't think you were into celebrity gossip."

Malfoy shrugged. "I have to find inspiration for my music somehow."

Harry choked. "The music that's inspired millions is based on feelings inspired by celebrity columns?"

"The rage," Malfoy corrected. "He is such a prat."

"Potter didn't have a happy childhood, you know," Harry ventured. "I'm sure the wizarding world was a relief."

"He was raised by some awful Muggles who abused him or something, there were all sorts of rumors," Malfoy said.

"Rumors?" Harry said, insulted.

"Where have you been? The whole wizarding world talked about it. The way he wasn't properly fed and practically Muggle when he came to school."

The wizarding world had been pitying him?

"How do you know any of this anyway?" Harry said, furious, and waited for Malfoy to explain his way out of it.

"We had loads of family friends at Hogwarts."

"Didn't you go to school with him? You seem like you'd be the right age." Harry dared Malfoy to worm his way out of that one. So far, Malfoy had no idea of who Harry was or his background. If Harry had gone to Hogwarts there was a good chance he'd seen Malfoy and knew exactly who he was.

Apparently the same thought occurred to Malfoy. "I didn't go," he said. He waited but Harry said nothing. "Too delicate," Malfoy continued experimentally. "Spent most of my childhood in France."

Harry gave himself points for not snickering. "Yeah," he said instead. "I didn't go either."

"Really?" Malfoy said, his voice delighted. "I always felt so left out."

Harry had to admire Malfoy's acting abilities. "Naw. I always wanted to go, but my relatives were, erm…." Harry struggled to think of an appropriate excuse. He had nothing on Malfoy. As soon as dinner was over he was going to his room and inventing a proper history for Jerry Evans.

"I know. Mine were too."

"Ah, er?"

"It's alright. I understand," Malfoy said, and his voice was matter of fact. "Most people don't, but I do. Your relatives, my parents thought they were protecting us, keeping us away from impure blood and Muggle influences, and that crackpot Dumbledore…"

A hazy mist rose in Harry's mind. There was a limit to how much he could take in one night. "Dumbledore wasn't—" he said, and the cut himself off before he could ruin the charade.

Malfoy didn't notice. He was still trying to reassure Harry. "They were doing their best, that's all," he said. "They were just teaching us to believe what they'd always believed, and in the end it was just a mistake. Their lives, our lives, were all based on a stupid, stupid mistake and it cost us everything."

Harry wanted to reach over and pat Malfoy, tell him it was alright, look him straight in the eye and say it was over, the past didn't matter, but when he looked at Malfoy all he could see was his own reflection wavering in across Malfoy's dark glasses.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Guys, I'm sorry it's been so long. For the longest time I didn't know where to take this story. Thank you for your patience, for your love.

Draco could not fall asleep. The mediwitch didn't have anything new to say. It was just the same old litany: there was no hope that his sight would return and any magical cure would leech away his hearing.

He had never been a heavy sleeper, but now nights were worse than usual because they did not end. When Draco did manage to snatch a few hours of sleep he could never quite tell whether it was day or night when he woke up. It didn't much matter he told himself, but somehow it did. Somehow it was hellish to imagine the rest of his life spent in the eternal hush of midnight even if he could not see the darkness, especially because he could not see it.

He turned on his side and told himself to stop being morbid. It would be impossible to forget day and night with Evans in the house. The man was loud, forever clattering pots and pans. He even seemed to breathe loudly. Draco could swear it was possible to hear Evans's smiles, little crinkles in the face of the universe.

Evans. How on earth had Selena managed to find someone with such a similar background? Relatives fanatical about purebloods, hadn't been to Hogwarts…Some days Draco almost forgot that the fictional autobiography he'd invented for Soames Grandfrey was well, a fiction. A fiction mostly inspired by one of his cousin's lives, and his real life, was something he had consigned to the faded pages of history the moment he graduated from Hogwarts.

Not that Draco Malfoy existed anymore. As far as the world was concerned, Draco Malfoy had disappeared off of the face of the planet. His Hogwarts friends imagined he was traveling around the world waiting for the scandal around the Malfoy name to die down, his parents really were doing that, and the rest of the world didn't care to ask too many questions about what had happened to Draco Malfoy. It was easier this way. Better.

Thinking about his Hogwarts days was too painful. He'd been so sure of everything. He'd had everything. And then Harry bloody Potter had come along and it had all collapsed, leaving Draco to face the following realities:

The smartest witch of his generation was a muggle born. The greatest wizard of the generation was a psychotic serial killer who was defeated by a seventeen year old boy. The man Draco was supposed to kill planned his own death to save Draco's soul.

There was nothing Draco knew or took for granted now except for music. And that too was fading away from him.

If the Universe believed in justice, it also believed in vengeance, and Draco was definitely being punished for his mistakes, for the mistakes of all of his ancestors before him.

Draco sat up. There was no point trying to sleep now. He'd only work himself up into a feverish frenzy full of wild emotions that were far too complicated to put into words. Anger, betrayal, and a strange, throbbing sadness that would not go away no matter what Draco did.

He clambered out of bed and padded out of the room. He walked with one hand pressed against the wall, the other held out in front of him. He did not think about how much easier this would be if he could use magic, he did not even go there because using his magic would mean losing his music and that could not be borne.

The wall paper was rough against his fingers, and the floor was cool underneath his feet. He was getting better at navigating the house, he thought once he'd reached the hallway: he managed to make it to the hallway without stubbing his toe.

Evans had left a window open—a treat, it was nearly impossible to open and shut windows himself— and Draco could hear the waves whispering against the shore, harmonizing with the quiet ticking of the clock. Draco stood in front of the window sniffing the salty tang of the sea air, letting the breeze wash over his face.

The ocean was soothing, Draco thought. Perhaps that's what he ought to do, abandon his house and the piano to sail the world. He wouldn't have to talk to anyone, he wouldn't have to see anything, it would just be himself and the music of the waves.

But then blind people couldn't really go far as sailors.

Draco felt for the wall so he could make his way down the music room. He knew it made no sense, but somehow walking at night was worse. At night the house sounded different, the silence buzzed, and the bones of the house creaked, like someone uttering a death gasp or sobbing in their sleep?

Draco paused and cocked his head. Yes, there it was, a faint sob, like someone snuffling into their pillow.

Draco padded slowly down the hallway. The snuffling grew louder. Evans. It had to be Evans. Draco's fingers hit a wooden door and now the snuffling was clear. He lifted his hand to knock and then dropped it. What would he say anyway? Oh, hallo, making the night rounds, thought I heard you sobbing. Let's talk about our feelings.

He stood and waited by the door, but the snuffling had stopped.

Perhaps he'd imagined it. Perhaps he'd managed to buy a house that creaked like a sobbing child.

He turned and left for the music room.

* * *

><p>When tomorrow came, Evans woke Draco up by waving a huge stack of pancakes under his nose and Draco was torn between yelping, "Not on the piano you fool" and "oh my God, sweet pancakes come to Papa" and like that it was easy to pretend he hadn't heard anything.<p>

Draco yawned and stretched and cursed himself for falling asleep on the piano again. His glasses were skewed and it took some poking and prodding to make them sit right on his face.

"Why do you always wear those things?" Evan asked. "I didn't want to ask the first time I saw you wearing them, but it's got to be uncomfortable sleeping in them. Besides it's not like…" he cut himself off abruptly and Draco was sorely tempted to throw the entire plate of pancakes at him.

On the other hand that would be a sad waste of pancakes.

He shoved them up his nose and glared hard at Evans. Evans had the good sense to drop the question but unfortunately, Evans idea of delicately changing the subject was dispensing advice where it wasn't wanting.

"You ought to go swimming," he said while Draco tucked in.

"Ah, what?"

"With all those pancakes you're eating. You'll need it."

"I burn, Evans. Take in the pale pearly skin. It doesn't do so well with sparkly sunbeams."

Draco bet Evans was one of those annoying people who never sunburned and just darkened into a light tan like a biscuit baking in the oven.

"You do have a sweet tooth, don't you?" Evans said when Draco mentioned it. "Even your metaphors are about sweets. That's when you know you're headed towards an obese old age."

Draco felt discriminated against. "I have no need to spend the next two weeks pink with pain like an overcooked shrimp that just crawled out of it's mother's womb."

He was quite pleased that he'd managed to work in a pescatarian simile even if it didn't completely make sense. He dared Evans in all of his nutritionally obsessed glory to mess with that one.

Evans was silent. He seemed to have been stunned into it. After a few minutes it started to get unnerving.

"Well," Draco demanded.

"…I just…I don't know where to begin?"

Draco glowed. His turn of phrase tended to do that to people. It was what made his lyrics so brilliant.

"I mean, first of all, cooked shrimp are dead. They don't feel anything. Fundamental part of being dead which I think you may have missed. Second of all how does something cooked crawl out of a womb? Thirdly, do shrimp even have wombs? Also why am I contemplating shrimp wombs at who knows when in the morning? How did this become my life?"

Evans ranted like a crazy person, Draco decided. He hoped it wasn't catching.

"Anyway," Evans continued, "What's the point of having a beach house if you're scared of the beach?"

Draco really wished he'd punched him instead of letting the glasses thing slip. Unfortunately if he punched Evans now it would underscore the point.

"I'm not scared of the beach."

"Oh?" Evans said and Draco could just hear the raised eyebrow in his voice.

"I'm not falling for your stupid psychological tricks," Draco said. "I know exactly what you're doing and arghgghg-"

Evans grabbed his hand and marched for the door.

* * *

><p>"But I'm not wearing a bathing suit," Draco said for the hundredth time. He lifted his face to the sun, and the gentle heat against his face felt like a caress. It wasn't half bad being out here, and for once it felt safe. Whenever Draco went out he didn't know how long it would take him to get back in, so he normally stayed inside until it felt like the walls were closing in and pure panic and frustration drove him outside to wander around like a mad creature until he somehow stumbled back home.<p>

Not that he mentioned any of this to Evans.

"Boxers," Evans said briefly.

Draco wiggled down into the sand. He'd have sand in his pajamas, but Evans had done the laundry so there was a stack of clean ones in the wardrobe.

"I think I'll just work on my tan, thanks," he told Evans. He had no intention of stripping down to his gooseflesh in front of Evans.

"Your choice," Evans said and thankfully didn't say anything about Draco's tan or lack thereof. "Wouldn't want wet pajamas if I were you."

"'m staying here," Draco said. "The wet is for children. Have a nice time."

There was a pause, and then Evans said, "Alright. I'm heading into the water. Yell if you need anything."

Draco was obscurely disappointed that Evans hadn't, what? Dragged Draco into the water? Sat around chatting with him? The man clearly had better things to do and anyway it didn't matter. He had dragged Draco out here, Draco would cook pink, and then he'd have an excellent excuse to yell at Evans for the rest of the week. Brilliant—

A stream of water hit him in the face. Draco sputtered and choked. Evans, the rat bastard laughed and grabbed Draco by the wrist.

"Salt water's good for your skin," Evans said. "And now that you're wet there's no excuse." He looped his arm over Draco's waist and squeezed so tightly there was no hope of getting away. Then he half pulled, half dragged Draco into the ocean, his body a warm solid weight next to Draco's. Draco tried not to pay attention to how good it felt to have Evans pressed against him, or how hard his muscles were under the softness of his skin.

"Evans," Draco howled as Evans dragged him into the water, "you're fired."

"Mhmmm-sure, keep telling yourself that. Just remember who makes the pancakes here."

Damn. That was the problem with getting too friendly with your help. They thought they could manipulate you. Draco ducked his head under water.

The water was cold, but the sun was hot and the waves in the background beat a steady tattoo against the shore—swish, crash, swish, swish. It had been ages since Draco had dared to go out to sea. He thrust his fists in the air and then fell backwards letting the waves catch him. He floated up to the surface, letting the water wash over him, giving himself over to the steady beating of the water against his skin, the sun against his face. Then he tried to stand up again and found that he couldn't reach the bottom.

He swam a few strokes and tried again, but still the ocean bottom remained beyond his reach. He turned and then turned again but he did not know which way was back and it occurred to him that he could die like this this, get swept out to sea and no one would ever know. He had been Malfoy, he was Grandfrey, but out here in the salt sea, he was nothing, just another speck of life that would be swept away with the tide.

A strong hand caught Draco. "Steady on," Evans whispered in his ear, his breath tickling Draco's ear. "I'm here and I'm not letting you go." Arms wrapped under Draco's armpits, and suddenly Evans was pressed against his back.

Shamelessly Draco turned and buried his face in Evans' shoulder to keep the tears from coming. Evans's shoulder was warm, soaked in sun, and the heat pressed against Draco's eye sockets. Draco looped his arms around Evans' neck. Evans started kicking gently.

"I'll take you back now," he said softly, and spoke of the dinner he would cook, the soft warm towels that would be waiting. "I'm sorry," he said, again and again to Draco's h air. "I'm sorry I let you go for a second, I didn't mean to scare you. I was here all along, I was always here." All the while he tucked an arm under Draco and towing them back to shore, like he was Draco's anchor, like he was Draco's compass, and if Draco would just hold on and trust in him, he would set the world right again.

So Draco held on and trusted.


End file.
